Los Angeles daily herald., 1887-01-01
A TALE or THE NOW.
An American Story by On American
Author Utfng American Ingredients.

Author Uting American Ingredients.
The glorif1ed and infamed west was Just
deepening into rosy twilight, and the eastern
hills were in the act of peeling of their ruddy
robes for the night, when q well dressed
Englishman Of American descent might have
besn ssen vending his way in northeasterly
direction, regardless Of the gathering night
He was tall, 1.-THE and pimply in the ex-
treme, with large, wistful, dewy eye Tho
other eye was also in the same condition. His
name was Edmund Clayborne Briggs, do
mesticated Englishman from Massachusetts,
He was q self-mads man; but, aside from
that he had never done anything reprehen-
sibla
Edmund Clayborns Briggs ancestors had
toiled for a livelihood, for they were an igno-
rant people and did not know any better. He
was engaged in trying to overcome this in
herited desire for industry-this strange, NOR
bid yearning for something to do. His sue
cess thus far had been phenomenal Still he
hoped to accomplish even greater things in
that direction.
His dress was that Of young man born on
American soil, but who had tried to conceal
the disgusting and terrible fact from the eye
Of the world. His pantaloons were worn how
ing in the legg and glossy across the seat All
that he had done thus far in life had been in
the sedentary line. He was proud of the fact
that his hands were not hardened by low,
coarse toll. Some had claimed that there
were bunions ON his brain where self-esteem
was located, but that was only an idle rumor,
and this is no place for anything Of that
kind
How sorry he felt for those who wore
american shoes and New York hatsl AS he
stood leaning against fence, feeling strange
yeaining for something more definite, he
looked down at his own English-made shoes,
with their fat and pussy" appearance, their
droop in the middle and their wide, over
fed, choked look. He felt of his youngest
pimpe and looked at the stars, which were
just coming out one by one
We will leave him there q few moments
while VIC pass on to briefly describe a young
thing named Vaselnia Coifure, who stands
in the bay window patiently waiting for us to
do so. She is not neglecting her other work,
however, for she has no other work She feels
that she was born to be loved, and though she
has been out of a job good deal of the time,
that Is her business. To love and be loved is
her aim in life.
She loves Edmund with all the deep, rip
snorting torrent of her Intense nature. She
Is like him. for she dislikes those who per-
spire. Her father was a toiler, and now, at
the age of IS, he is an old man.
She will take warning and shun the mad
maelstrom in which he has wrecked his young
life She shuddcrs as she thinks of it. She
recoils. 1t costs her an effort, but she re-
coils She then stands OH the other foot
awhile as she peers through the cleaning.
Let us look at her for moment as she
peers through said gloaning Her brow is
low, and it looks still lower, because she
wears her hair tossed wildly over it in little,
naly, fluffy giblets Of redness, while at the
back Of her head it is caught up into an in
famed doughnut and held in place by tin
dagger. Her throat is long and flexible, and
the poise of her head, which she wears at the
upper end of her swan like throat, is first
rate The air is one of disdain. She has
naughty way of taking out her gum and
seeking it OH the ceiling that reminds one Of q
duchess in good spirits.
She now changes back to the other foot,
and looks ycarnfully out through the gather
ing night. Her attitude is one which
painter might long stvi7e. to portray on
canvas and fail to catch. Her dress is cut so
as to conceal her shoulder blades as far as
possible, and she wears large wooden buttons
ON the points Of her elbows, 90 that she will
not scratch the marble top dressing case when
she leans on it in order to ponder a few
hours over the interrogatory, "Why was
borni"
The night has almost instantaneously grown
intensely dark. 1t is as dark as the interior
Of a benighted Ethiopian. The wind is sigh
ing through the trees, and seeking out the
belated gentleman whose underwear has been
worked up into a rag carpet
"And will he never, never comet" MUIR
nlurs Vaselinia as she sits on one of her feet
on the lounge and HUNS . low refrain, en-
titled ''Climbing up the Golden STAIR"
The bell now reverborates and Edmund
enters. They looked into each others eyes,
but all is vacancy there. II Il what they ex-
pected.
Anon Edmund seats himself. It 10 his nor
NAL condition. In his hand he holds q cane
with white celluloid head to it How he
envies the cane. Thoughtfully he leans for
ward with the whole white top Of tho stick
immersed in his mouth. He Il just about to
speak when there is sharp, resonant explo-
sion, a dull cry Of alarm from Vaselinia, the
smell Of gun cotton, camphor, hair oil, dam
aged ideas and escaping gaA